


Tell Me More, Tell Me More

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Summer Camp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-08 23:31:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11656947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: "Better make sure to say goodbye to your flag now, Griffin. 'Cause in about an hour, it's gonna be ours.""Big talk for someone who got himself and his boys hopelessly surrounded last year and had no choice but to jump into the lake.""I didn'tjump," he starts to say hotly."Hope you've got your swim trunks on," she interrupts sweetly, glancing deliberately down to his board shorts in a way that makes his insides flare up competitively. (Yeah, that's definitelycompetitionthat's flaring. Nothing else.)Or, the one where Bellamy and Clarke are counsellors at a summer camp who happen to share a perfectly normal and completely friendly rivalry.





	Tell Me More, Tell Me More

**Author's Note:**

> _prompt from[smarmyunicorn](http://smarmyunicorn.tumblr.com): C is a counselor at a girl's camp, B at a boy's camp across the lake. They hold a capture the flag tournament between the two camps, and B and C are captains. They're both crazy competitive, Clarke is ruthless, etc. Eventually smut ensues._
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> this was supposed to be for my 1.5k celebration, but it clearly got the hell away from me, so no judgements please 
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> also i'm probably the last person on earth to catch up to the party, but the Bellarke Fanfiction Awards are back!! nominate your faves [here](http://bellarkefanfictionawards.tumblr.com/post/163528685312/bellarkefanfictionawards-nominations-the-time)  
> (if i happen to be included in that, thank you so much??!?!? if i don't, thank you so much for taking the time to give some Recognition to your faves regardless!!!)
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> (title from 'Summer Nights', from Grease)

 

 

Bellamy passes a hand over his forehead, skimming off the sweat collecting there on the stretch of overheated skin hidden under the heavy curtain of his bangs. (Yeah, okay, he _really_ should have gotten that haircut before heading off to camp this year.)

 

"Everybody got it?" he asks, putting on a stern tone for the group of boys gathered around him, all nodding eagerly. "Okay, let's go through the plan one more time. Jordan?"

 

The lanky fifteen-year-old snaps to attention, saluting pointlessly. "Monty and I are in charge of distraction and diversion! We keep their strikers occupied."

 

"Focus on?"

 

"Their fastest runners, Monroe and Harper," Monty Green says promptly.

 

Bellamy nods approvingly, turning to two tall boys standing across the circle. "Mbege? Atom?"

 

"Strike team," John Mbege answers readily, the other strikers exchanging rough claps on the back. "We follow your lead, and go in via the far end, opposite the lake shoreline."

 

"Remember, stay _away_ from the lake," Bellamy reminds, turning to the rest of the boys in the centre of the circle. "We _don't_ want a repeat of last year. Myles, Sterling?"

 

"Defense!" Sterling pipes up fiercely. "Protect the flag, take everyone out. No mercy!"

 

Behind him, Miller grins, reaching out to ruffle the younger boy's hair. "That's my man," he says, exchanging an amused but proud look with Bellamy.

 

Suppressing a grin of his own, Bellamy shakes his head before focusing back on the huddle around him. "Good work, team. Are we gonna win this?"

 

"Yeah!" the boys chorus.

 

Bellamy cups a hand to his ear, pretending to frown. "I can't _hear_ you. Are we gonna _win_ this?!"

 

" _Yeah!_ "

 

He smiles, stretching his hand out towards the empty centre of the circle. " _That's_ more like it! Hands in, everybody."

 

After a loud, rousing group cheer, the boys quickly disperse, running off with armfuls of empty balloons ready to be filled up with water.

 

"Thanks again for putting me on defense, man," Miller says as they watch the boys work. "Would _not_ wanna be you today."

 

"Encouraging," Bellamy comments with a dry smile. "Hey, come on. This is _our_ year. I can _feel_ it."

 

"The only thing you're gonna be _feeling_ is a water balloon to the _face,_ Blake."

 

He and Miller turn sharply around.

 

"Griffin," he says, crossing his arms. "Reyes."

 

The two girls have their hands planted on their hips, looking him and Miller up and down with the easy confidence that comes with having two consecutive capture the flag victories under their belts.

 

"Thanks for hosting our next victory, by the way," Raven Reyes says, casting a deliberately breezy look around the wide expanse of grass they're standing on, right next to the large lake separating the boys' camp from the girls'. "What is it gonna be, our second in a row?"

 

"Third," Clarke Griffin corrects smugly, her blue eyes flashing. "But then again, who's counting?"

 

Bellamy scowls at her. "Better make sure to say goodbye to your flag now, Griffin. 'Cause in about an hour, it's gonna be ours."

 

She scoffs. "Big talk for someone who got himself and his boys hopelessly surrounded last year and had no choice but to jump into the lake."

 

"I didn't _jump_ ," he starts to say hotly.

 

"Hope you've got your swim trunks on," she interrupts sweetly, glancing deliberately down to his board shorts in a way that makes his insides flare up competitively. (Yeah, that's definitely _competition_ flaring up low in his gut. Nothing else.)

 

Raven turns back as the girls start to walk off, her ponytail whipping around her shoulders. _"I'm going to kill you,"_ she mouths silently and exaggeratedly to Miller, dragging a line across her neck in a show of aggressive warning.

 

"I'm already dead inside," Miller calls back out loud, shimmying his shoulders in a flippant shrug.

 

Turning back to his boys, Bellamy grabs the whistle around his neck and brings it up to his mouth, blowing two short, sharp bursts. "All right, I wanna see some hustle! Let's _move,_ men!"

 

Pushing his hair back from his forehead, he glances back to see Clarke Griffin already looking at him out of the corner of her eye, arms folded authoritatively as she pretends to survey the group of teenage girls scurrying back and forth between the lake and their designated base. She drags her gaze off his ass and winks at him, flashing a wicked smirk before turning away.

 

Oh, it's on.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Despite being singularly owned by the Jaha family, the Ark summer camps have always been split up according to girls and boys. It's a pretty good idea, if you ask Bellamy. Growing up, he definitely would have appreciated the chance to be an awkward, brash teenager around other awkward, brash teenagers without his increasing sexual awareness of the opposite sex hovering in all corners of his brain. (As for his increasing sexual awareness of the _same_ sex — well, that can't really be helped, can it?)

 

As for being a summer camp counsellor, he genuinely didn't think he would enjoy the gig all that much when he first tried it four years ago. It was just something to _do_ while he was on summer break, worn out from his freshman year of college and looking for something different to spend his time on other than making cappuccinos and bussing tables like he'd been doing all year. He'd figured he'd do the summer camp gig for seven weeks, pick up something unique for his CV, meet some people who _wouldn't_ let him down in group presentations in front of his professors, get some sun and exercise and fresh air along the way.

 

He'd had a good time that first year. Not _life-changing_ or _mind-blowing,_ but, yeah. Good.

 

And then he found himself signing on for the next year. And the year after that. And the year after _that,_ and, well. He supposes this is just his life now.

 

It's really not so bad.

 

Sure, the camp is a lot further out than he'd like. Yeah, sometimes he forgets to put on sunscreen and comes home with an itchy back and skin peeling off the back of his neck. Okay, maybe sometimes dealing with the campers themselves can get annoying and frustrating, as dealing with teenage boys tends to get.

 

At the end of the day, there's nothing like getting a bright smile and a hug from a happy teenager, thanking him for _'being around'_ for seven weeks of summer camp.

 

Plus, thanks to Ark Summer Camp for Boys, Bellamy's met some good people. There's Miller, who's never without a snarky comment to liven up any and all activities. It's funnier because the cheesier the camp activities get, the snarkier Miller gets, but the snarkier Miller gets, the surer Bellamy is that he's having a good time. There's the camp director Wells, who's smart and kind and patient with the kids. (They even dated for a bit after Bellamy's first camp, but once the summer was out, decided they were better off as friends.) There's Bryan, who Bellamy really doesn't know all _that_ well, but he and Miller have been together for what looks like about eighty-four years. There's Roan, who's a little older than the rest of the counsellors and really doesn't say all that much, but still remains the only person capable of getting _all_ the boys to shut up with just a look.

 

And then there's the girls' camp.

 

Six weeks out of seven, the two camps get along just fine. There's a lot of facility- and equipment-sharing, along with a healthy crossover of activities, especially when they're bringing in instructors from outside the camp for things like archery. It's a good balance, in Bellamy's opinion.

 

But then week seven comes along — and for the entire week, the two camps turn into warring countries, each group determined to win the big capture the flag competition scheduled to take place at the end of every summer.

 

He supposes that on some level, it really is his fault.

 

Three years ago, he'd been appointed to head the CTF charge. He hadn't really thought much of it at the time — after all, it's really just another game in the myriad of games they play at camp. And then two weeks into camp, he'd been approached by a girl in a bright yellow _Ark Camp for Girls_ T-shirt and a yellow braid hanging over her right shoulder to match.

 

"We need to make the competition more exciting," she announced with no preamble. "Really build up some anticipation. Get everyone more involved." She'd paused, blinking at him. "I'm Clarke, by the way. Clarke Griffin."

 

Later, he learned it was her first year in charge of CTF on the girls' side, too. He found himself impressed by her drive, and since he thought it was a good idea, he agreed. With both camp directors' consent (and much to Wells' and Luna's amusement), they'd ordered a big trophy, one of those large golden cups with blank slates on the base where you can engrave multiple winners' names. It arrived at the camp offices two weeks later, neatly bowed ribbons of red, white and blue streaming from both handles.

 

"See? Now it's an honour worth fighting for," Clarke had told him, grinning as they admired the trophy.

 

"An honour we'll be happy to win," he'd responded cheekily. "When we beat you, that is."

 

She'd snorted, elbowing him in the side.

 

Okay, fine. He'd really only said it to flirt with her. Whatever, he can admit it now.

 

Even so, he _still_ regrets speaking too soon. Especially when the girls won within twenty minutes flat that year, crowing and dancing on the shore of the lake all the way into the night.

 

Clarke had found him a couple hours later, still bright-eyed and breathless from the high of winning. "You were saying?" she'd asked teasingly, bumping her shoulder into his.

 

He could have _sworn_ he'd had a sarcastic retort ready to go, dancing on the tip of his tongue — but at the sight of her hopelessly dishevelled braid and flushed cheeks, his cleverly prepared response all but evaporated into thin air.

 

"Yeah," he'd muttered, letting her lean into him with a blithe laugh. "Whatever."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Despite his newfound and _highly_ inconvenient (but more importantly, _minor_ ) crush on his fellow counsellor, he'd been determined to take the capture the flag competition seriously the next year round.

 

Perhaps a little _too_ seriously.

 

"Yo," Miller had asked midway through camp, "are you and Griffin fucking?"

 

He'd nearly tripped over the length of tent material he was fumbling with, choking on thin air as he whipped round to stare at his friend. "I— _what_?!"

 

Miller had merely nodded. "Okay. Just checking. Although—" he'd leaned in then, one hand cupped over his mouth with a conspiratorial air, "— you might wanna tone it down on the sexual tension."

 

"There's no sexual tension," he'd shot back heatedly. "It's _trash talk._ For the _competition._ "

 

Miller waved a dismissive hand. "Whatever you call it, dude. Just maybe not in front of the kids, at least."

 

He'd tried so hard to avoid her after that that he _completely_ lost focus during the competition itself, allowing himself to get cornered by Clarke and three other girls, all mercilessly pelting him with water balloons as they chased him into the lake.

 

"Stop _laughing,_ " he'd ordered Clarke grouchily once he emerged from the lake, not bothering to wring the water from his T-shirt.

 

Naturally, she refused.

 

So, naturally, he picked her up, and threw her into the water.

 

" _Asshole,_ " she'd complained as she grabbed his outstretched hand to pull herself out of the lake.

 

His cheeks grew warm when he noticed the way her soaked clothes clung to her generous curves, lake water dripping down from her shorts and streaming down her bare legs in lush rivulets.

 

It hadn't quite made him feel _quite_ as warm as when she'd dried off with the towel he'd run back to his dorm to fetch, and, after wrapping her wet shirt in a plastic bag, donned his spare hoodie over the bathing suit she'd had on underneath, the long hem of the garment hanging so far down on her shorter frame that it almost made her look like she wasn't wearing anything else underneath.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It's weird, really.

 

He _likes_ Clarke, that's for sure. He's reasonably confident she doesn't _hate_ him either. Their barbed interactions are more companionable than genuinely prickly, both of them slinging teasing insults whenever they're within the same space with an easy rhythm.

 

He likes the other counsellors from the girls' camp well enough. Luna is steady as a rock and unflappably good-natured, and he really admires the special knack she has with the kids. Gina is _really_ well-read, and she almost always has some sort of interesting trivia to share for the day, depending on the activity they're doing. He hasn't spent all that much time with Emori and Niylah, seeing as they're more involved with the indoorsy activities, but from what little he's seen of them, they're nice enough. Raven is always a delight — her word, not his. Plus, she's the only one he can rely on to give Miller a good run for his money in the snark department.

 

His favourite is definitely Clarke, though. He can't really explain it. She's pretty, but it's not like she's the _only_ pretty female counsellor at camp. She's funny, but so is Gina. She's smart, but not as smart as Raven. ( _No one's_ as smart as Raven.) She's great with the kids, but so's _everyone._ Why else would they be here?

 

There's no single defining quality elevating her far above the rest. She's just… _Clarke._

 

They've even started texting each other outside of summer. Usually, it's about dumb stuff, like movies and TV shows they've talked about while at camp together, or references to stupid jokes they made.

 

Sometimes, though, it turns into more. Like when she makes an offhand joke about school, and he gets the distinct impression that she's genuinely unhappy doing pre-med. Or when he makes fun of his dysfunctional relationship with his younger sister, and she laughs along for a bit, but always adds something like _'but srsly, are u ok?'_ or _'u guys will sort it out. u're family'._

 

Sometimes he'll go on Instagram, pull up her page, and take his time scrolling back till he gets to a photo she'd posted last summer. It's a counsellors' group shot they'd taken on a whim, all of them scrunched up together like a rowdy class photo. Raven's got Miller in a headlock as she beams cheerfully at the camera, and Wells and Luna are on opposite ends of the group, wearing twin wry expressions like wearied schoolteachers.

 

He and Clarke are side by side in the centre of the group, arms folded and shoulders pressed right up against each other. He can't remember what exactly happened right before the camp medic Jackson had snapped the photo, but he must have said something to Clarke, because they're looking at each other instead of at the camera. She's got one brow cocked, the corners of her mouth twitching upward like she's trying extra hard not to smile, and he's got a brow raised at her too, a challenging smirk on his face.

 

Yeah, they definitely don't just look like run-of-the-mill colleagues.

 

He could really just look at his phone whenever he wanted to see the picture. He'd asked Clarke to send it to him so he could set it as his phone wallpaper, after all.

 

But it’s not just the photo itself -- not really. Something flutters in his gut whenever he sees the caption she'd posted on Instagram all those months ago.

 

_'Summer lovin', had me a blast.'_

 

(Along with an emoji — the one with the lady dancing in the red dress.)

 

And yeah, he knows it’s just a stupid line from a stupid song from a stupid musical.

 

But, whatever. It makes him _smile,_ okay?

 

 

* * *

 

 

Bellamy's always been pretty competitive.

 

He can remember participating in sports meets at school, actually _training_ for them weeks before sign-ups even opened. He used to take video games pretty seriously, certainly more so than his friends.

 

Which is why when it comes to the annual capture the flag competition, he's determined _not_ to fuck up a third time round.

 

He'd been unprepared for that first year. He'd been distracted the second.

 

But this year? Nothing's going to stop him from taking back that trophy _this_ year.

 

Not even his stubbornly persistent crush on Clarke Griffin.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They say that when you're fighting in a war, even just one minute can feel like one hour.

 

For Bellamy, it feels like the hour flashes by before he can even blink, nothing more than a dizzy blur of exploding water balloons and grass-stained T-shirts and whooping battle cries. It feels like only a few minutes have gone by before John Murphy's waving the girls' flag with lazy triumph, inexplicably standing a whole twenty feet off from where Clarke and her girls are guarding a suddenly empty base.

 

It's nothing short of _miraculous._ (Murphy wasn't even _in_ the designated strike team.)

 

"I can't _believe_ we won," Miller breathes once the campfire is all set up, roaring and crackling merrily as the campers mill about holding paper plates full of fried chicken and Tater Tots. The fire is another joint tradition, to celebrate friendship and community between the two camps. (Or, in other words, for the winning camp to fully milk their victory over the losing team.)

 

"I can't believe we won because of _Murphy_ ," Bellamy says incredulously, making sure to keep his voice low. "Nine times out of ten, we can barely get the kid to _show up,_ let alone participate."

 

Somewhere behind his shoulder, a throat clears.

 

"If it's any consolation to you guys," Clarke announces matter-of-factly, dropping down onto the wooden bench next to him, "I can't believe you won either."

 

Miller nods at her across Bellamy. "Griffin," he manages through a mouthful of chicken.

 

She looks faintly amused at his puffed out cheeks. "Miller. I thought I'd do the honourable thing and let you know that I'm supposed to be running cover for Raven right now while she attempts to steal embarrassing photos of you from your boyfriend." She shrugs, grinning cheerfully as she plucks a hunk of chicken breading off Bellamy's plate and pops it into her mouth. "In the spirit of fair play and everything."

 

Miller chokes on his chicken, spitting out a word that they're _definitely_ not encouraged to use anywhere _near_ the kids before leaping off the bench, charging around the wide circle towards the small stacks of drinks coolers on the opposite side of the fire, where Raven and Bryan are standing with plastic cups of root beer in hand.

 

When both their chuckles die down a little, Clarke's gaze slides towards him. "Nice crown."

 

"Thanks," he says, a little defiantly as he reaches up with a hand, touching the delicate circlet of rosy pink flowers sitting on top of his head. "I, uh— I didn't—"

 

She's already shaking her head, a knowing smile on her face. "Don't worry, Charlotte's been making them all summer, like some kind of one-woman flower crown factory. She gives them out to _everyone._ "

 

He snorts, dropping his hand. "And here I thought I was special. But hey, thanks for bursting my bubble."

 

She sniggers in return, reaching up towards his head. For one wild second, he thinks she's going to do something that will make him melt into literal mush, like stroke his hair or something — but then she's whipping the flower crown off his head with nimble fingers, planting it on her blonde head with a wide grin.

 

"On second thought, this looks a lot nicer than any of the ones she gave me over the last few weeks. Hope you don't mind if I steal it for a sec."

 

He shakes his head, smiling despite himself. "She made an _extra_ nice one for me? See, I knew I was special."

 

She rolls her eyes, cocking her head at him. " _Down,_ boy. A twelve-year-old girl having a crush on you doesn't make you Man of the Year."

 

He starts to shoot off a jokey response on pure impulse, but then he stops, blinking blankly at her. "Charlotte has a crush on me?"

 

She gives him a funny look — as in, the one that she usually gives him when she thinks he's being funny. "Like, half the girls have crushes on you. Pretty sure the whole of bunk three would put up _posters_ of you if they were allowed." She tilts her head, the edges of her mouth quirking like she's trying to suppress a smile. "Is this news?"

 

"Oh, sure. Great," he mutters, prodding aimlessly at his own paper plate. Apparently, everyone is capable of developing crushes on him _except_ the one girl _he's_ been crushing on for years. Sounds about right, he tells himself despondently.

 

Clarke nods briskly, turning to look at the fire. "Yeah, kind of hard not to get jealous, actually."

 

He scoffs reflexively, shifting the plate from one hand to another. "Yeah, I'll bet it—" He cuts himself off, whipping around to stare at her with wide eyes. "... _Huh?_ "

 

Bellamy's never thought of Clarke as a self-conscious person, but there's something in the laugh she huffs now that makes him reconsider. He's not sure if it's the furtive glance she casts around the fire, or the slight flush working across her cheeks, or the hand she lifts to brush a stray lock of hair away from her face.

 

"What would you say," she says, a slight waver quaking through her casual tone, "if I told you that someone here's had a crush on you for the last three years?"

 

He opens his mouth. And closes it.

 

Finally, he swallows.

 

"I'd say," he says slowly, meeting her gaze when she turns to look at him, "tell me more."

 

 

 

It takes him ten seconds to decide he's done eating and put his half-full paper plate down.

 

It takes her another ten seconds to decide they're both done socialising, and tug him off the bench, her mouth curving in a wicked smile.

 

He's too impatient to wait till they're properly in the trees, pulling her back by their joined hands to kiss her eagerly, one hand cupped around her face to anchor them to each other. She tastes like root beer and the strawberry gum she's always carrying around, her skin is still radiating heat from the hours they've spent in the sun, and it's the best fucking thing in the entire universe.

 

He's clearly not the only one with a restraint problem, because Clarke breaks the kiss after the briefest minute to yank him over the last few steps to the nearest tree, pressing him into the hard trunk before practically launching herself at him, lips and hands every inch as eager on his skin as he was on hers just moments ago. He groans, letting himself savour the feel of her warm body in his arms, running his palms greedily over the line of her back before rounding over the curve of her ass, gripping tight and pulling her flush against him so they both get some friction right where they need it most.

 

He groans when she tears her mouth away to nip at the sensitive skin just under his jaw, her hands already dipping under his tank to pull insistently at the waistband of his board shorts. "Fuck, Clarke—" He swallows, stilling his hands against her in an attempt to regain some measure of control. "That's not— We don't have to do that."

 

She pulls back the slightest bit, and he already misses the feel of her pressed all up against him.

 

"Three _years,_ Bellamy," she reminds him, and he wants to fucking _laugh_ because _how_ is it possible that he can see her raised brow and pointed smirk _even in the pitch black darkness?_

 

Shaking his head, he brushes back her mussed-up hair from her face, cupping her face with both hands as he presses his forehead to hers. "I— fuck. I like you. So much."

 

He feels rather than sees her smile, and when she steps even closer to him so that their lips brush right up against each other, it feels like a fresh cup of cocoa spills all over his insides, coating everything in hot, melting sweetness.

 

"I like you too," she whispers, and, for a moment, everything is soft and wonderful and intoxicatingly halcyonic — and then she's kissing him again.

 

It's like a switch flips when she bites teasingly on his bottom lip, and before he even quite decides to, he's spinning them around, growling into her mouth as he presses _her_ into the tree, his hands hot on her hips. In all honesty, they're really not _that_ well-hidden — it's literally the first tree on the edge of the woods that they're currently making out against — but he knows better than to interrupt Clarke once she's got her mind set on something. (Also, his dick would probably kill him if he cut this short for either of them for any reason.)

 

All the same, he's not about to fuck her up against a fucking _tree_ less than a couple hundred feet from where a small herd of middle- and high-schoolers are milling about, yelling and laughing around a roaring fire. Call him cheesy, but that's just not what he'd envisioned for their first time together. Even so, he _definitely_ doesn't want to kill the mood, not when she's in his arms all warm and eager like this, her small hands greedily drinking up every inch of him they can get on.

 

The best he can do is really to just get her off with his fingers, sliding a hand into her shorts and right underneath the waistband of her bathing suit bottoms to find her already warm and wet, teasing hard and firm on her clit before letting a finger dip into her. He keeps it slow and steady at first, pumping leisurely just to enjoy the ragged groans it draws from her throat, and then picking up the pace once she starts gasping his name. He does a pretty good job of steadfastly ignoring his own needs while he's working her over, but when she wraps a hand in his hair to tug sharply on his curls, he loses it a bit, dropping his head to her shoulder as he grinds helplessly into her thigh. When she comes, she bites into the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and between that and the feeling of her clenching wet and hard around his fingers, he's legitimately surprised he didn't just come right then and there in his shorts.

 

He half-expects her to be all loose and lazy once she's ridden out the last waves of her orgasm, drawing his fingers gently out of her and stroking lightly over her wet folds as they both bask in the afterglow — but then she's moving, hands sure and firm as they yank down sharply on the waistbands of both his board shorts and the briefs he's got on underneath so that his cock practically jumps out at her, slapping up against his lower belly with a flat, faint thud.

 

"It's okay," he starts to say — but she's already wrapping her hand around him, surging up to kiss him hotly and _holy fuck_ if she hadn't _just_ come all over his fingers he would swear she's just getting started.

 

"Shit, Clarke," he swears raggedly as she starts to work him hard and fast, her hand small and warm and _so fucking good_ and it pretty much makes him want to _cry._ (He doesn't, though. Because he may be pathetic, but he's not _that_ pathetic.)

 

He _does,_ however, pitch forward so he's pressing her back into the tree, one hand braced against the trunk above her head so he doesn't crush her under his weight, the other gripping bruises into her hip under her shirt. It's _really_ hard to stay upright and on his feet, what with Clarke's hand doing _that,_ and Clarke's mouth trailing wet kisses along his jaw, and Clarke's voice whispering _those things_ in his ear to encourage him along — but by the grace of whatever deity that's clearly looking out for him tonight, he somehow manages it. Suffice it to say that it's not the most _graceful_ orgasm he's ever had, but, frankly, he can't quite find it in himself to care. It's _Clarke._ He's long accepted that when it comes to her, he'll never have any chill.

 

It's clichéd as fuck, but when they finally emerge from behind the tree, clothes thoroughly rumpled but back in place, they make sure to take their time walking back to the campfire, exchanging shy smiles and covert glances and letting their fingers accidentally on purpose brush against each other all the way. He feels like a _teenager_ again, like everything's new and fresh and the air itself is buzzing around him.

 

"What's up with you?" Miller asks through a mouthful of marshmallows when he finds him twenty minutes later, pretending not to watch Clarke across the circle as she pretends not to watch him.

 

"What do you mean?" he asks distractedly, turning his own marshmallows over the fire.

 

"Your face," Miller supplies helpfully. "It's all weird."

 

"This is my face, Miller," he says dryly, but he quickly wipes whatever mushiness he can from his expression. "You've seen it before. I'm not sure what else you expected."

 

Miller shrugs, already padding off to hunt down more marshmallows.

 

Tomorrow, Bellamy decides as he chances one last covert glance at Clarke. She throws him a quick smile — a secret smile, just for him — and then she lets herself get dragged back into a game with three of her campers, something involving a lot of jaunty chanting and rhythmic clapping. They'll have time to be together tomorrow, after the campers go home.

 

Something catches his eye, off to the far right.

 

"Jasper! Monty!" he yells, tossing his marshmallows aside as he leaps off the bench towards the doe-eyed duo. "Not in the _fire!_ "

 

 

* * *

 

 

The last day of camp is always one of Bellamy's favourite parts of the entire summer, hands down. The kids clamour to take a billion photos with you, and give you big, sticky hugs, along with all sorts of stuff — things they made in crafts sessions, or little gifts they got their parents to send from home, usually sweets or some other type of junk food. The counsellors exchange small presents among themselves too, whether it's packets of snacks or real mementos like matching keychains or engraved wristbands.

 

There's also this unwritten tradition the counsellors have of writing little notes or cards for their campers, just to thank them for the summer and encourage them for the school year ahead. He'd never say it _out loud,_ but that's _definitely_ the best part. Seeing the kids' faces when they read over the stuff he writes to them is pretty much the best payment he could ever ask for. (Well. Other than actual money, of course. Kids' smiles feed his heart and soul, but they don't pay his rent.)

 

Once all the kids are shuttled off home or back to the city, the counsellors spend the rest of the day together, both the girls' and guys' groups helping each other to clear out the camp facilities and put everything away in storage for the rest of the year. Raven gets some music going, and when Miller starts complaining, Wells and Luna will order food in from somewhere for a quick lunch break. With all hands on deck, everything usually gets done an hour or two before dinnertime.

 

By the time they're finished, most of the counsellors are lazing about the picnic tables, some of them laying right on top of the tables, others sprawled out on the grass as everyone sings along to Top 40 hits playing from Raven's speakers. Emori bounds up to their table after a few minutes, grinning excitedly.

 

"Dropship for dinner and drinks?" she asks a little breathlessly, beaming her bright smile around the group. "A bunch of us are down. Wells is taking the van, if anyone needs a ride into the city."

 

"I'm in," Raven says instantly.

 

"So are we," Bryan says cheerfully, pointedly ignoring Miller's melodramatic groan.

 

Bellamy holds off answering right away, glancing warily at Clarke. He doesn't want to _assume_ anything, but—

 

"I don't know, I'm really beat," Clarke says, her tone deceptively casual. He _would_ be disappointed, if her foot weren't currently stroking purposefully against his ankle right now under the table.

 

"Yeah, me too," he says once he recovers, pulling up an easy smile for Emori's benefit. "You guys go ahead. I can give Clarke a ride home."

 

Echo wanders up from behind Emori, eyeing them all as she gathers her dark hair up into a ponytail. "Can you give me a ride too?"

 

 _No,_ he's about to blurt out — but then Emori laughs, and playfully nudges Echo with an elbow.

 

"You're coming with us, killjoy," she teases the taller girl, not seeming to notice how her playful little nudge has basically forced Echo to restart her ponytail attempt. "No back-outs!"

 

Echo rolls her eyes after Emori's departing back. Turning back to the group, she mouths _"kill me now"_ before moving off, arms crossed loosely over her front.

 

"She's closer than she thinks," Miller says darkly. "Jordan and Green's homemade fireworks could've barbecued us all."

 

Bryan shudders, and Raven reaches out to clap him on the back.

 

"Good catch, Blake," she says.

 

"Yeah," Clarke agrees, a teasing glint in her eye. "Good catch, Blake."

 

 

* * *

 

 

It feels weird, saying goodbye to everyone at camp instead of following along on whatever they've got planned for their last night together.

 

"So, uh," Bellamy says once the campsite is firmly in their rearview, "where am I taking you? Your mom's?" It's no secret that Clarke goes to school out of state, but spends summer breaks at her mom's house in the suburbs.

 

Clarke hums vaguely, reaching out to fiddle with the radio dial. "Too far. Mind if we just hang out at your place?"

 

He almost swerves the car off the dirt road, with the force of his double take. "Yeah, no — _sure._ No problem."

 

It's an hour's drive back into the city. Around the halfway mark, Clarke gets the idea of ordering takeout in advance.

 

"By the time we get back, we'll have dinner right there waiting for us," she says with a flourish. "Boom. _Served._ "

 

He laughs, trying not to get _too_ hung up on the words _'we'_ and _'get back'_ being used like that, one right after another. "Yeah, okay, good idea. Order up."

 

They spend another ten minutes discussing their options, Clarke scrolling through her phone as she reads online menus aloud to him. They finally settle on Thai, and once their order's completed, she settles back into her seat with a satisfied sigh. It's the smallest thing, barely even a _sound,_ really — but it settles somewhere deep within him, and makes him want to smile out at the completely empty road for absolutely no reason at all.

 

He's nervous as they get out of his car and head towards his building. She's never seen his apartment before. She's hardly the first person he's ever brought home, but still. It feels weirdly _personal._

 

He's so preoccupied with watching her face for her reaction that he doesn't even notice that she's brought _all_ her stuff up to his apartment from the car — the entire giant hiking backpack with the canvas shoe bag hooked to it on a sturdy carabiner, _and_ the little canvas tote bag of random bits and bobs, like colourful cards and packets of miniature gummy bears.

 

She sets both bags down and readily follows his lead when he toes his shoes off, no questions asked. He feels weirdly appreciative of that one small gesture.

 

He clears his throat, gesturing to her bags. "Do you want to— I can put those—"

 

"It's okay, I've got it," she says, slinging her bags back over her shoulders. She hesitates slightly, glancing up at him. "Where's your room?"

 

He catches the slight shift in her tone of voice. There's something behind the note of questioning, something deeper than just idle curiosity.

 

All of a sudden, he realises that he's probably not the only nervous one in the room.

 

"Yeah, it's— here, down this way," he says quickly, leading her through the living room and into the small hallway. He opens the door, fervently praying that he hasn't left a dirty pair of underwear out on the bed or floor or something equally as embarrassing — but the coast seems clear. He tamps down on the urge to breathe a sigh of relief, turning to hold the door open for her with a small smile.

 

She moves into the room, looking around before setting her stuff down on the floor, a couple feet from the door.

 

"Hey," he says as she arranges her stuff in a neat little pile, his voice slightly strangled. She looks up, frowning quizzically. "This— I mean—" _Ah, fuck it._ "You're _staying,_ right?"

 

She stands up properly then, leaving her things on the floor. At first, she looks like she's about to say something, her brows slightly drawn — but then she huffs a small laugh, brushing a strand of blonde out of her eyes.

 

"That depends," she says, her tone light. "Can I?"

 

" _Yes_ ," he exclaims, all the air seeming to rush right out of his lungs with the one word. "Of _course_ you can stay. Fuck, can you stay the rest of the summer?"

 

She laughs then, a _real_ laugh, eyes all crinkled and twinkly, already crossing over to wind her arms around his neck. "Okay," she says, leaning up on her toes. "I'm staying, then."

 

"Okay," he says happily, wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her closer. "Good."

 

 

* * *

 

 

She actually does end up staying for the rest of summer.

 

She stays for the rest of fall, too. And winter. And spring.

 

After all, it would be kind of hard for her to attend the undergrad art course she'd transferred to from out of state.

 

When summer rolls around again, they're driving up to Ark together, her ancient, unreliable but still-mostly-operational iPod Classic hooked up to his car.

 

"And no discussing _anything_ capture the flag-related all throughout camp," he continues, thumping on the steering wheel for emphasis. "You can keep your feminine wiles far, _far_ away from me. I'll never betray my men."

 

"Your 'men' are fourteen-year-old boys armed with water balloons and B.O.," she says with dry amusement, scrolling through her iPod. "But whatever you say, babe."

 

"And don't even _think_ about seducing me at the campfire after that," he adds, just to be stubborn. "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me _twice_ —"

 

She rolls her eyes. "Wait till _after_ camp to seduce you. Got it."

 

His gaze cuts to her, frowning slightly. "Well. You don't have to wait till _after_ camp to— I mean, you know. If we see each other here and there— I'm just saying, if we both happen to have some free time, after meals or whatever, there's no harm in taking a _second_ to—"

 

He's interrupted by the sound of a familiar riff creeping in through the speakers, Clarke's hand on the volume dial, cranking it steadily up as she grins cheekily at him.

 

"Oh my _God,_ " he pretends to groan, but he's already grinning right back.

 

 _"Summer lovin', had me a blast,"_ Clarke sings unapologetically, reaching out to lace her fingers through his.

 

It hasn't even started yet, but it's already the best summer of his life.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed that UNNECESSARILY long fic on what was really just supposed to be blarke getting Messy with a game of capture the flag lmAO
> 
> send in your BFF Award nominations [here](http://bellarkefanfictionawards.tumblr.com/post/163528685312/bellarkefanfictionawards-nominations-the-time)!
> 
> [tumblr](http://mellamymake.tumblr.com) keeps me centred. (*bellamy voice* you've got that backwards.)


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